Unspoken by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

the breeze, a cigarette wedged between moist-looking red lips, was Vianca Estevan, daughter of the man everyone assumed Ross McCallum had put into an early grave. Over-sized sunglasses hid eyes that Shep knew glowed like dark coals. In one short glance he caught a glimpse of the tops of her breasts, visible over the low-cut scoop of a white T-shirt.
    As he turned back to the house, his damned cock tightened all over again and he clenched his jaw tight.
    Inside, Peggy Sue was chopping onions while bacon sizzled in a skillet on the stove. Grease, crackling and popping, spattered over the edges of the pan.
    “Smells good.”
    She didn’t respond. Lately she’d been testy, he thought, as he reached into the fridge for another beer. She shot him a glance, her lips tightened, but she didn’t nag. She knew better. He watched her work and got hard. How long had it been since they’d gone at it? A week? Two? It had been a while. He’d tried to cuddle up to her each night and she’d told him she wasn’t in the mood, then rolled over in their double bed with the sagging mattress and offered him no more flesh than a severely cold shoulder.
    “You runnin’ for sheriff?” she finally asked, tossing a handful of chopped onions into the skillet. They sizzled instantly in the hot grease.
    “Yep.”
    “You filed?”
    “Nope.”
    “Don’t you think you ought to?”
    “I will.”
    “What’s holdin’ you up?” She didn’t so much as glance at him as she scraped up the remains of the onions with her knife, cleaning off the scarred chopping block.
    “Work.”. He wouldn’t go into it now. She really didn’t want to know.
    “It’s because Ross McCallum’s gettin’ out, ain’t it?” she asked, and he was surprised she understood. “My guess is that the D.A. wants to reopen the case because he’s gettin’ some pressure from the townsfolk and them Chicanos or Latinos or whatever they call themselves now.”
    “That’s about the size of it.” Leaning a shoulder on a cupboard, he sized her up. She never ceased to amaze him. Sometimes she was dumb as a stone, other times he noticed a hint of brains she’d spent over thirty years hiding. “I already had myself a talk with Smith.”
    “Nevada?” Her shoulders stiffened just a mite, but he caught it. She’d always had a thing for the half-breed. Hell, half the women in the county did.
    Shep had never understood it, why seemingly sane women hungered after a no-account, worthless rancher with a black reputation, who, unless Shep missed his guess, knew a helluva lot more about the Estevan murder than he’d ever let, on.
    “Yep. Smith’s the one who put McCallum behind bars, back before he was thrown off the force.”
    “Railroaded, you mean.”
    “He had his chance to clear his name. Didn’t take it. Some people think he knew more about Ramón Estevan’s death than he’s sayin’.”
    “Do they?”
    “I thought maybe I’d just lean on him a bit and see if he’d break.”
    “He won’t.”
    She was so damned certain of it. Using the knife, she mixed up the ingredients in her fry pan.
    “Shelby Cole’s back.”
    This time she turned to face him, and her face had gone as white as old Etta Parson’s vintage Mercedes. “You don’t say.” The onions had turned opaque, the bacon sizzling.
    “Yep. Saw her in town today, and boy, howdy, who’s the first person she ran into?” He saw the understanding in her eyes. “That’s right. Nevada Smith himself. Had themselves a little talk over at the White Horse.”
    “Who told you this?”
    “Lucy. But half-a-dozen folks saw ‘em walk in together, then hustle out the back door before they even had a sip. The way I heard it, Badger Collins drank both beers before Lucy could snatch ’em up.” He chuckled to himself, but Peggy Sue didn’t even smile.
    “Shit.” She stopped her work, fastened him in eyes that seemed twice her age.
    “Somethin’ buggin’ you?” ,
    “You might say that.” Her shoulders